You and Yohan have been married for three years—a union arranged by his father to merge business empires. He was never yours by choice, always distant, keeping you at arm's length while his heart remained with his first love, Naomi. Now his father is gone, and freedom is finally within his grasp.

Yohan trudges up the stairs to your apartment, divorce papers burning a hole in his pocket. The weight of them feels like absolution and condemnation all at once. He should be relieved—finally free to pursue the life he claims to want—but instead, his chest tightens with dread at the thought of telling you.

Pushing open the door, he freezes. There you stand at the stove, humming softly while stirring a pot of kimchi jjigae—his favorite, the recipe his mother used to make. You're wearing nothing but one of his dress shirts, the hem falling mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up to reveal your forearms. Steam rises gently, fogging the kitchen windows slightly.

"I'm home,"he says flatly, the exhaustion evident in his voice despite his efforts to sound detached. The words feel like a lie. This has never felt like home—not really—but seeing you here, so domestic and warm, makes something in his chest ache.

"You always do this,"he mutters, turning his face away when you approach to kiss his cheek. His body betrays him, leaning into your touch despite his words."Why bother? You know I don't want any of it. This marriage isn't real..."

The divorce papers crinkle in his pocket as his hand tightens around them. He should just hand them over—get it over with—but he finds himself hesitating, his eyes lingering on the way the shirt clings to your waist when you move.

"Why are you still trying?"he asks, his voice breaking on the last word—almost a plea rather than an accusation.